


Ícaro

by Fxnfarra



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Best Friends to Lovers, Bisexual Peter Parker, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), F/M, Hunter Schafer is Gwen Stacy kinda, Jewish Peter Parker, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24597022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxnfarra/pseuds/Fxnfarra
Summary: Situations can get worse.Roman Vidal is trying to live as an ordinary teenager, he really is. He hates Physics and is almost failing in it, even. But it's not working.His past and future haunt him. His parents were killed, an eviction notice was stuck at his door and someone is training him to ruin the lives of criminals. Still, there is good parts despite the lack of a codename, or the cloth mask, or his crush on his best friend.The best part is that he gets to punch neo-nazis; the worst is that he and his family are still in danger. Nonetheless, he needs to finish what he has started.Roman needs to kill the Winter Soldier.
Relationships: Ben Parker & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes & Original Character(s), May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Original Female Character(s), Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Avengers Team, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Original Character(s), Peter Parker/Original Male Character(s), Steve Rogers & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Blue, red and grey

I guess we could use one of those classic story-beginning sentences. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. But what does that even mean? Obviously, somewhere in the world, it is the best of times for someone.

Roman Vidal has made a nest of himself on the sofa. He keeps doing that - covering himself with blankets and oversized t-shirts. It is summer, though, and he is sweating, but he feels pretty well and safe in his own personal claustrophobia, thank you very much.

His brother had promptly suggested that Roman went to spend the summer vacation at their abuela's house. Specially after the new wave of miseducation he presented during this first semester. Alícia Maria, his younger sister, decided to make him company, leaving Nicolás to have some peace since he gained their guard two years ago. Since their parents died and Roman didn't.

His abuela (do not mistake with the long deceased abuelita, God bless her) reads young adult novels (she loves Six of Crows), has determined that she is a Ravenclaw and shows her middle finger to Trump whenever he is on TV. It is a breeze of fresh air.

What he really likes is that no matter what high-stress thing is going on in his world or in the world as a whole (Christmas, SATs, natural disasters, car crashes, disappointing someone he cares about and being worried to death he might puke), there she is, his abuela and her noisy chanclas, doing her thing.

His legs are bent, aching knees close to his chest, and while his whole body is supposed to be hidden, his left arm is partially out of the cover so he can see the bright screen of his phone. A name jumps out of it - a cherry-red name with flecks of silver, one Roman had always loved. No one else is that biased towards a color like _Peter Parker_.

"Are you sure you're not sick?" Ali asks without taking her attention from the television. She grabs a spoonful of ice cream and shoves in her mouth.

"Have you ever seen me sick?" He retorts, knowing, before she shakes her head, that the answer would be "no".

That is because he never gets (physically) sick, although the sentiment of sickness is very familiar. No annual spread of the flu, no bellyaches. While his sister is allergic to dogs and needs to use glasses, and his brother has broken the same arm twice playing baseball (how he managed to do that, though?), Roman has a perfect - and slightly better than average, if you must know - vision, and once has accidentally broke someone's nose during a volleyball class when he was in 6th grade.

Mami had always said to keep his powers hidden - you never know what can happen to you these days. She, though, didn't call it powers. They were gifts. And if it wasn't probably blasphemy, would have called this God's given miracle. Everything weird with Roman's super resilience and crossing of neural connections was a gift. _Oh, there is this other thing_... Roman see and feel things most people don't, and for a long time it didn't occurred to him that no one else could sense it too.

It's not something he thinks with frequency, sometimes he even forgets it's not the norm. It feels like the world is playing some sort of joke on him. A Mourning Dove's song _is_ yellow and there's no better way to explain it; the teacher's obsession with capslock on PowerPoint presentations makes everything too bright to read. But at least there's always an agreement about how ugly the National Anthem is.

Ali finishes her ice cream and sets the bowl over the table. Roman runs his fingers over his hair - during summer he had let it grow, now the dark curls are fluffy and too rebel. The motion helps him go back to his original anxiety.

Roman has always had a really hard time apologizing if he’s forced to do it. He laughs and giggles, he smiles even when he tries not to because the idea of this forced, fake apology is so off putting he can’t comprehend taking it seriously - what for sure has got him into trouble multiple times. The point is: Roman loathes fake apologies, and he has heard so many of them and actually believed and hugged and cared them, that now any apology coming from himself sounds like a poor copy.

But if he could, if he was at Peter's door right now, he would cry himself numb to deserve his pardon. But again, if he was at Peter's door right now, he probably wouldn't have to do that at all.

So he sends a message. Don't take it wrong, he wishes he didn't have to make such a shitty move, but here we are. He did previously thought about calling him, but apparently Peter is " _kinda busy_ ".

It ended up a well balanced apology with equal measures of regret and understanding that speaks honestly from his heart (and overthinker brain). Nothing with " _I hate myself for doing it, but I did it because of whatever reason_ " or any other gross victimization Liam thaught him - we will talk about Liam Reed later, he's not important at the moment.

Peter has visualized it fifteen minutes ago and doesn't seem willing to give an answer any time soon, what is a very non-Peter thing to do - he's not one to embrace passive-aggressive attitudes. Maybe Roman finally got the worst of him.

"Pues mira, Andy-" says his abuela noticing his worried expression. "-al mal tiempo, buena cara." Then she caress the right side of Roman's face where the light-colored scar stands as a reminder: a line from his forehead to cheekbone.

He smiles with fondness, noticing the use of one of her catch phrases. His family has many of those. His abuela is also not the only one in his family to call him by his second name (in case of forgetting one, don't worry! You got three more spares), but that, Roman can't explain why.

"¿Qué es esto?" The elderly woman points at the movie they're watching before turning to Ali. "¿No sos demasiado joven para ver esto?"

Certainly, the preachy girl couldn't just answer the question. "I don't speak Spanish, aunty. Why don't you try English?"

Well, their abuela _can_ speak English, but she _won't_ because she has a point to prove. And so does Alícia.

Roman doubts she can't truly understand Spanish. From all their close relatives, the only one without Colombian heritage was their father and only him, as he grew up on an orphanage and wasn't able to share his whatever-european legacy. Sure, just a low handful of cousins could actually speak a second language and their mother did a great job at dousing off her sing-song'd words, but Roman believes the reason why Ali pretends not to know the basics of Spanish is to keep herself unaffected by curses and fights (the bigger the trouble, the sharper the Paisa accent).

People have always compared her to their father, probably just because of the lighter skin tone and, again, the lack of Spanish. But Roman always thought he was very similar to him, more than to their mother. Okay, fine, he does _looks_ a lot like their mother, but he has the "sensibility not praised by the family" - what isn't praised is not the sensibility per se, it's the obviousness.

"Usted estás fuera de mi herencia."

He stays silent until she forgets the question and walks away. Roman could explain the whole concept of 'Bring It On' and the politics on Cheerocracy to his abuela, only that talking that much right now would be like moving furniture.

His cellphone shakes sparks in his hand. It joins the others two hundred thirteen (at least a hundred and seventy are from the Vidal family group chat) unread messages he's received over the course of the day. He leaves them to later.

**PETER PARKER**

> It's okay

> Just move on

There is no sigh of relief or jump of enthusiasm. He would move on, eventually, and act like nothing ever affected his bright personality. But the dread feeling of guilty and danger needed to stop bursting first - it always starts before the actual confrontation and ends a lot after the resolution, like a cup of soda with bubbles brimming at the top. So Roman has to wait until the bubbles seize and leave a bad taste at the back of his throat.

"It's like the desert in Oz here," Ali says.

Roman looks over at his sister, who's already looking at him with a wrinkle between her brows. He takes a deep breath. _Things keep on happening_ , he thinks under her cautious gaze.

"There's no desert in Oz," he says instead.

"Yes, there is, in the books. There's this desert that you have to stay away or it burns you up."

He tilts his head, blinks, and swallows his self-pity, replacing it by a mischievous look and the edge of a smile. "What if I ask abuela to turn on the backyard tap?"

Alícia's face lit in excitement. They never had a swimming pool at home and neither does their abuela, so when Nico was younger and less cynical, he and some cousins would use a garden hose to splash water everywhere, pointing it to the sky and pretending it was raining. A tradition - or a romanticized improvisation - passed down through generations.

He smirks. "But only if you bring me ice cream."

"No."

"Oh, I see, so that's how you treat me? If you ever ask me a favor again, anything, I won't-"

"Fiiiine!" Alícia drags the word just like she draws her body out of the couch.

Roman looks down once again and taps a reply: 'I miss you'. His hand reaches up and grabs his cross necklace, pulling the metal chain against his lips.

**PETER PARKER**

> We'll see each other when summer ends

> Happy birthday, btw

Roman wraps himself tighter in the blanket.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

" _Anybody ever tell you you're a little paranoid?_ " Teases Sam Wilson.

Natasha's controlled voice answers. " _Not to my face. Why? Did you hear something?_ "

The presence of his partners is only noticed by their cheap talk. Steve Rogers hears through the earpiece the analysis of the new Avengers' case. "Eyes on target, folks. This is the best lead we've had on Rumlow in six months. I don't want to lose him."

On an apartment in Lagos, Nigeria, Steve observes the busy streets hidden by the curtains. He spots a garbage truck pushing its way through traffic, with no regard to pedestrians or other vehicles.

"Sam, see that garbage truck? Tag it."

In a minute, Sam is able to scan the truck with a small drone he treats as a pet, and report the analysis. " _That truck’s loaded for max weight. And the driver’s armed._ "

Nat is fast to formulate their intentions. " _It’s a battering ram_."

Without hesitation, Steve gives the permission to action. They all hear through the communicator when Wanda - the last, but not least component of the task force - exclaims surprised by the sudden order.

"He’s not hitting the police."

The grasp of his hand on the shield reinforces the mentality of now being, not Steve Rogers, but the Captain America. Soon, he's at the courtyard of the Institute for Infectious Diseases, fighting against the soldiers in black armor who successfully broke into the place driving the garbage truck. "I make seven hostiles."

" _I make five,_ " replies Sam. The mayhem keeps sounding over the speaker. " _Four_."

Sam scans the inside of the building, in time to Steve reach him and Wanda. "Rumlow’s on the third floor."

"Wanda," calls Captain, "just like we practiced."

Her Eastern European accent tingles in his ear. "What about the gas?"

"Get it out."

Wanda hex Steve to lift him up and through the window. He uses his shield to break the glass and quickly immobilize a soldier, pulling off his gas mask. Thanks to the serum, Captain America is conveniently immune to such toxins, but the whole intervention takes longer than he planned, with soldiers shooting in his direction from various corners. Wanda starts to dilute the gas with the air, and by the time Steve gets to the target room, the building is clean of the toxins. Just as the room is empty and the biohazard is out of sight.

"Rumlow has a biological weapon."

" _I’m on it,_ " replies Natasha on the radio.

An explosion rumbles at the courtyard, Steve runs out onto the balcony and spots Rumlow. A skull mask stares back at him while the man prepares and aims a grenade launcher. The grenade slams into the Captain's shield and he is thrown back inside. He scrambles to his feet as Rumlow fires two more times, throwing him out of a window, onto a truck, and finally the ground.

The burn sensation on his chest and the ache on his back cause Steve to struggle to get up, but are far from stopping him. "Sam. He's in an AFV heading north." With that, the super soldier is running once again into the commotions' direction.

Sam is the first to locate the vehicle, now crashed over a marketplace. " _I got four, they're splitting up_."

Natasha rides through the crowd on her motorcycle. She abandons it and runs over the hoods of cars, in pursuit. " _I got the two on the left_."

Steve is also running across cars when he spots a vest in the middle of the crowd. "They ditched their gear. It's a shell game now. One of them has the payload-"

Something crashes against the Captain's shield - a bomb, ticking incessantly. Promptly, Rogers throws the shield in the air and the bomb blows up safely away from the citizens. With the seconds of distraction, Rumlow comes up behind Steve and punches him hard in the back, who collides with the stalls set on the street.

"There you are, you son of a bitch," says Brock Rumlow approaching the fallen man. "I’ve been waiting for this!"

Another huge strike hits Steve before he can reach his shield. His stiffened back crashes over wooden and his face throbs against the arid ground.

Sam's voice echoes from the radio. " _He doesn't have it. I’m empty_."

Steve gets up and puts the pain aside, keeping up with the fight and overruling the HYDRA soldier for just a moment, before being cornered.

"This is for dropping a building on my face," snarls Rumlow. He extends a blade from his gauntlet and knocks on Steve's direction, who's able to deflect the blow, hitting the wall instead.

Steve grabs Rumlow's arm and pulls the gauntlet off, only for him to reveal another knife. But Steve bests him, with a fierce kick to the chin Rumlow is brought to his knees. The man removes his mask, revealing a severely scarred face. "I think I look pretty good, all things considered."

Captain pulls him by the collar. "Who's your buyer?"

"You know, he knew you", Rumlow smiles maliciously. "Your pal, your buddy, your _Bucky_."

Steve clenches his fists harder and pulls the man further with a rage he couldn't blame on the Captain America's professionalism. His fast-beating heart shouts through his ears. "What did you say?"

"He remembered you. I was there. He got all weepy about it. 'Till they put his brain back in a blender."

Steve feels a sharp pain in his throat, closing his lungs. A bitter taste in his mouth.

"He wanted you to know something. He said to me, 'Please tell Rogers. When you gotta go, you gotta go.' And you're coming with me."

A second, and the HYDRA agent activates his bomb vest. Steve flinches as Rumlow's armor ignites, but Wanda shows in time to keep the blast contained, trapping Rumlow in agony. She lifts him into the air; her hex, however, runs from her grasp and gets out of control, as the explosion finally blossoms, devastating entire floors of a nearby building. At the terrifying scene, Wanda covers her mouth with trembling hands.

"Oh my..." Steve gasps. "Sam, we need- Fire and Rescue. On the south side of the building. We gotta get up there."

The bitter taste in his mouth, he knows, it's his own sorrow.


	2. All that jazz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mild allusion to anxiety and self-destructive behavior

IF YOU ARE FAMILIARIZED WITH THE CONCEPT OF EVOLUTION, you must know that it is not necessarily a good thing. Roman can't say in which ways he has evolved through the course of the recent years, but a guilty mind will always be biased with what look at first.

After the attack that killed his parents and spared his life, and which he has barely no memories whatsoever, Roman was lead to something he named Post-Traumatic Martyr Syndrome™. Because something of this magnitude should be remembered.

Nights spared awake typing at his cellphone, eyes sliding shut, trapped in forums and social media sites. Nothing substantial. Nothing truly worthy of the time he was trying to give meaning to. Just keeping himself occupied.

Acting recklessly and cracking jokes about how he ended up hurt; " _you should've seen the other guy_ ," when there wasn't another guy, but a 30,000 pounds truck that smashed his old skate when he decided to jump four flights of stairs in front of a busy street.

It's about not being afraid of the ground once you have actually hit it.

At fifteen, he was your average hanging-out-in-a-graveyard teenage boy stereotype, sympathizing with fake deep philosophy. Don't judge him! In time we all lose this maturity and go back at laughing about dick jokes. The present-day Roman, in his fresh seventeens, shows the prime difference of having a job, a better sense of fashion and another ex-boyfriend additional to the list. _Progression_ , he calls it.

Although it is still hard to find a reason - a belief of some kind - to get up of the bed in the morning. Mornings are not a good time for him, always too loud, too many details wrapping his brain.

That's why, by the time Nico opens the door to call him this fine day, Roman is already awaken - but his eyes are stubbornly shut. The door is left open, being the main source of light in that pitch-black room.

His brother loudly taps the wall, making Roman flinch. "It's six-something. Wake up, kiddo." And promptly goes back to the kitchen to prepare the breakfast.

Nicolás is always the first one to get up, taking his time to organize his own things without having to trip over some sibling gone astray. Also, they only have one bathroom, which means that if you want to take a shower before going to school, you better run.

Miraculously, Roman manages to toss the blanket aside, jump out of the bed and stumble to the door. He has the small advantage of being five feet away from his destination, and the big downside of taking too long to do anything. From the end of the hall, Alícia's silhouette runs and locks the door behind her.

"Get out!" He knocks. "You were the first yesterday!"

The muffled voice of his sadistic sister replies from the other side. "Wake up early tomorrow."

"I woke at 5."

"So you're really stupid."

Maybe he is.

His brother's fierce voice calls out his sacred name from another room, telling him to take the clothes to the laundry. The boy tilts his head to the ceiling and lets out a heavy sigh. "I'M GONNA BE LATE."

"ROMAN, SI TENGO QUE IR AHÍ-"

"¡DALE, DALE!" He twirls back to the bedroom and turns the light on. "Whatever," he mutters through gritted teeth. There is a sour sensation at the back of his throat, he craves a routine he never had, he needs silence.

His room is small, just like all the rooms of the rented apartment. The walls have an empty wheat color and the window has its magnificent view to the brick wall of another building. If you lean a little bit you also see the trash can on the sidewalk and the grid separating the building from the back street. Roman almost never unlocks that window, so don't worry about him leaning over it.

There was also a mini cactus. It's dead now. Roman forgot to water it.

It's a really apathetic bedroom for a boy so full of personality (or at least, he _swears_ he had it when they moved in). Now, his whole past and bittersweet memories are summarized by the simple digital piano standing at the corner opposite to his bed; that, and the photo he carries in his wallet.

Roman gathers the reminiscent clothes amounted over a chair, dumps it into the laundry basket and leaves the apartment. Still on pajamas and yellow socks, he walks down the hallway and takes the elevator to the laundry floor, where there's only four machines for 30 apartments. Nico would come down to take care of the rest soon, they don't want the neighbors to hate them for leaving their clothes unattended - _the people in this building can be cruel_.

He calls the elevator again and waits a torturing minute as he tries not to think about how much he has to pee. The doors open, but the trip upwards stop quicker than it should. The laundry is on the underground floor, so he - _obviously, Roman, what were you thinking?_ \- would have to pass the ground floor. Which means that the risk of showing up as an idiot in socks and shorts (even though it's autumn) hugging an empty basket for his life and forcing a smile to whoever is passing by the lobby is inevitable. And he still needs to pee.

Wednesdays. What a concept.

Who's calling the elevator is Scout Bailey, a pixie-sized African American, Nico's only nice friend and the best neighbor with whom share problems. She was the one who killed the soda-addicted rat hiding at the community garden. A history forever marked on Roman's soul.

She runs with her daughter to Roman's side and chooses the ninth floor. The kid - who must be no more than seven years old - is practically dragged. They exchange a smile.

_What are you supposed to say in elevators? She'll think you're rude! Why didn't you go to the laundry after putting on pants?_

"If you didn't want to die, then why were you born?"

Roman frowns disturbed, and looks down at the little girl who stares back after having a Nietzsche moment.

"Please, Mackenzie," Scout censors with exhaustion.

She crosses her arms. "No mom, I want to hear what he has to say."

Roman doesn't know what to say.

"She does it all the time." Scout laughs, pushing her coily hair away from her face. "If she cared more about important things, like remembering about her lunch bag, instead of these odd talks, we wouldn't be late."

"I don't have an answer right now-" Roman looks anxiously at the light indicating the seventh floor. "-but I guarantee that I will think about it all week."

The doors open. Mackenzie smiles, missing two front teeth, looking satisfied with the deal.

"Bye, Roman."

"Bye."

Back inside, Alícia is now having her breakfast side by side with Nico at the round table. Her hair has been frantically rolled up in a bun and she wears the usual Saint Mary's monochromatic uniform. The image of the Devil.

Roman drops the basket and points at her, calling their attention. "I hope your kids have bad influences and develop a bad personality, Grasshopper."

"Dumb," she replies.

There's a brief time lapse around here when Roman goes to the bathroom. We all know by now its importance. Then he goes back to the banter. "You're fourteen, time to learn better insults, Shitface."

"Did you wash your hands?"

Roman runs a cold hand over his sister's cheek. "'Course not."

Alícia recoils herself in shock and stares at him with undeniable hatred, as if she's ready to skin him alive. Ironically, Ali is a vegetarian.

"You're so disgusting!"

She's a nerd obsessed with organization and scared of poor grammar, wat the broders enjoy making fun off _*wink*_

"'Course I washed my hands, I wasn't raised by wolves."

"Don't be so sure," says Nicolás. "We knew nothing about you before the adoption." _Ha-ha, the good ol' joke about the baby and the trash can_ \- that's his motto. Or hobby. Or eternal cruel desire to offend his little brother. Either way, he guesses it comes from a well-intended heart. But even that is getting ever so scarce, and this sense of brotherhood is losing itself within the years.

Roman used to know his brother; how passionate about culinary he was - alike their mother - and the way he loved horror and comic books. But that's trivial now, not important to Nico himself.

What Roman retains are the fundamental traits rooted to him: he's smart. Not smart-passing like Roman, or really fucking smart like Ali. Extraordinarily smart.

Even so, he also grew to despise responsibility in a personal level, thus you can imagine the extent of self-sabotage and unscripted adulthood over here. Their relatives always worried, through buzzing gossip, about their fear of Nico turning exactly like his father - a guy who's probably gambling his last cent back in Medellín. No one, however, expected that being named the legal guardian of two teenagers at the age of nineteen isn't a boost to the ego either.

"Electric." Nico reminds, pointing at the kitchen (more specifically, the carton in the cabinet at the kitchen where Roman should put his part of the bills money).

Roman's breakfast is already waiting and cooling, thoughtfully put over the table. Being a teenager, he is programmed to eat a lot. Being a teenager with an extra high metabolism, Roman is leaning to annoying expense. His biggest pet peeve must be when TV characters don't eat their breakfasts. Roman wouldn't waste food on his good days (or on the ones that are not razor-blade bad).

So he sits, starving, and takes a big sip of coffee. "When are you going to start pulling your weight?" He asks his sister.

"When are you going to start taking good grades?"

"I got an A+ on my blood test, so shut up."

She lets it sink in a bit, and then breaks up with a belly laugh; Roman could always count on her to it.

He takes another sip, sugary taste on the roof of his mouth. Sense of Humor, see? Everything's okay.

  
  
  
"I'M A SOBER MAN NOW," proudly states Johnny, the alcoholic neighbor.

He doesn't live in the same building, he is just well known around the block; Roman is not even sure if his name is Johnny, but it fits nicely considering he is in fact an alcoholic man and Johnny is an ugly green name (if your name is Johnny and you would like to make a complaint at our _Customers Service_ , please, get a life. It's not even Roman's choice, his synesthesia decided he should be disgusted by a particular name).

"Saving yourself for a future coma?"

"No, no! I'm sober as a seven-year-old, haven't had a drink in two days." The man scratches his unshaved face. "Well, I've been unconscious for most of it, but I figure: if I can abstain from alcohol when I'm out, how hard can it be when I'm awake?"

There's a reason to why his nickname is Boot and Rally. Only two things could survive the end of the world: cockroaches and Johnny.

"Sure, your body is a temple." The boy grips his backpack straps and slowly turns away from the man.

"That reminds me, do you have a lighter?"

Roman stops and hesitates. He briefly looks around before deciding it is a safe ground to take his lighter from the back pocket of his skinny jeans.

The man rocks back and forth. "So, you have a cigarette too?"

_Oh, for fuck's sake, Johnny._ Even if - in a hypothetical situation - Roman had a crumpled half-empty package in the bottom of the backpack right now, he is in a compromising situation since his sister can show up from inside the building at any moment; and he has the kind of luck that would make him choke to death on nicotine gum a week after he quit smoking. So no, even though he fights for the little ones, today is not the day he will be supporting his neighbor's nicotine addiction.

Besides, despite living near the train station, the journey from Jackson Heights to Midtown High School, in Forest Hills, takes around fourty minutes. Another reason to why he hates mornings: always a frantic despair to manage time. "No. Actually, I'm gonna buy it on my way to school, y'know, to which I'm kinda late. So take care of yourself."

"Take care of _yourself_ , young man. The road over there was repaved and there's a new cafe around the corner. Four bucks for a single slice of toast!"

Roman laughs at his tone. The thought of a dangerous Matcha Green Tea Crème Frappuccino® - plus other boastful never-ending beverage names -, and rude, obnoxious middle aged white women relying on Essential Oils for the health of their children, sounds satirical - at least. But his temper grips him, recalling the rental price that has risen since last month and the underpass getting crowded, full of excluded families and skunks out on probation.

Yet _they_ pat themselves on the back.

He turns around again, following his path. Fourty minutes. That, and he would be at a school - no, a slice of a neighborhood - that could make anyone just as delusional.

  
  


  
  
SUMMER VACATION HAS ENDED, BUT PETER PARKER GOT STUCK BETWEEN THE SUN AND THE MISERY.

Ned Leeds is talking about old video games, " _too much homework for a third day of school_ " and everything in-between, but Peter can't concentrate. Every now and then, he would nod, murmur a generic answer, and then peek over his friend's shoulder to look at the petite copper-haired girl standing across the hall. The trick here is that he couldn't be more disinterested about the girl too.

Rose's arms are around her boyfriend's neck, and her high-pitched voice beams about their anniversary - so, fair enough to say it isn't entirely Peter's fault if he can't look away, the two draw attention like magnets.

He knows almost nothing about Rose O'Brien, other than that she has played Juliet Capulet last year, is always described in the general consensus of a suburban rich girl trope, and likes to run her fingers through Liam's hair (because she is doing it right now, on the tip of her toes) - and it feels like a punch in his stomach that Roman probably used to do it too.

Liam Reed, _the boyfriend_ , is conventionally attractive - fair smooth skin, carefully combed brown hair and muscular body of a star quarterback; not so remarkable that he would stand out (especially in a school where fifty percent of students meet the standard), but just charming enough that people may assume he couldn’t possibly be up to no good. He towers over Rose, and if you are one to claim large height difference is cute, Peter judges this one unnerving. His senses regularly spike around Liam - the deranged definition of boys will be boys.

Liam - and remember to keep it a secret - is Roman's ex-boyfriend.

Peter never went through a breakup, so what he knows about it comes from lovesick ballads, celebrative anthems and his best friend's romantic life.

Roman came out to Peter around the same time he came out to his parents. In a flicker of wisdom and courage at the end of eighth grade, when he started dating Oliver _-something_. It just lasted three weeks, when another student saw them kissing at the locker room and suddenly Oliver was hit by that convenient amnesia where he didn't even recognize Roman anymore.

Then there was Liam Reed, second time he attended ninth grade. At the time, Peter couldn't even imagine that one day he would develop a "super-sense" against danger, so how could he explain this feeling in his gut insisting that Liam just wasn't the right guy? He was being too self-centered. Specially considering how Roman barely talked about their relationship, so the only thing he could really complain about was how distant his friend was becoming.

The months went, things happened. _Uncle Ben's death happened_. Probably something with Roman happened too, not that Peter could've known since Vidal decided to avoid him like the plague until the end of the summer vacation.

Peter never went through a breakup, but heartache was too familiar.

But now, Peter Parker can't care less about what Liam does with his time and ordinary jock life. Only that he is celebrating four months with his high school sweetheart, when Roman has broken up with him just _two_ months ago. Couldn't Midtown High School's Romeo Montecchio be any more tempting?

"Dude, don't tell him I said that," Ned pipes up before slamming his locker shut. Peter doesn't know who "him" is so he follows his sight to where Ned is paying attention to: a television hanging up on the wall with two of their colleagues presenting the school news in a purposely bad edition and lots of chroma key. "But those News get funnier every time. Now I get why Betty hates Roman so much, look this zoom on her face!" 

Peter feels tempted on teasing about Ned's one-sided rivalry over sharing friendship with someone else, but decides to comment on how Jason always seems high every new program. Regardless, before he can say anything, another voice startles him. "The saddest part is that she's actually good at journalism."

Parker turns around and, not surprisingly, is Roman Vidal who stands there undisturbed. His broad smile shows that, whether sincere or not about Betty, he enjoys the final work, and his eyes seem to laugh behind long lashes. There is a mild scent of mint replacing the old stench of tobacco, which in turn had been masking his familiar perfume for some time now. Roman said he smokes menthol cigarettes 'for his health'. Peter doubts he could find a psychiatrist that agrees with that remedy; maybe that's why the idiot never liked therapy.

"Close your eyes."

"What?" Peter realizes he'd been frowning. "Why? I'm not that kinky."

He lifts a hand to cover Peter's eyes, but the other boy leans away. "Just close it," he insists.

Parker sighs and does as asked. He can hear him shuffling around, but other than that just the usual teenage commotion down the halls. Sneakers sliding; metal doors opening; weird laughters;

Suddenly, a squeaky, tinny recorded voice shouts: "I love you, I love you". Peter's eyes open wide to see a little teddy bear in a keyring up close to his nose. Its furry is so unraveled he can only distinguish it by the ears, and the three black dots that form the eyes and snout. It sways and sways from Roman's finger as if he is trying to hypnotize him. _I love you, I love you_.

"I bought it at the gas station on my way here."

"You have a car now?" He hears Ned's enthusiastic tone.

"No, I was buying some stuff," Roman shrugs. "Then I saw it and thought you'd like."

Peter reaches the plush keychain with care. A quiet glimmer of joy spreads through him, fluttering in his chest. He looks up to see Roman's bright eyes, how he can hardly contain his happiness. His smile makes Peter smile, and things don't feel so bad.

"Looks like those things from star wars, right?"

Peter lifts a brow. "You mean the Chewbacca?"

Roman isn't a fan of Star Wars, even though he always agrees to watch it with them. Maybe _hate_ is a more appropriate word, really; so it's funny to see how awkward he gets talking about it. "I was thinking about the little bears, but it works too."

But, it doesn't. It looks like a wet puppy.

Ned approaches them to have a better look, his expression goes from confusion to disappointment, then he slowly shakes his head. "I would still prefer if it was a car key."

Peter stifles a chuckle, not having the heart to point out the dissimilarity.

"It's adorable." He caresses the token, the fur is soft and comforting. "Thanks."

Roman takes a deep breath, the smile turns saccharine-kind and apologetic. "I need to go now. See you guys later?"

 _If you decide it's worth your time_. Peter bites his tongue and bitter remark before he can spill anything out, hating how resentful he feels. _He thought of you, he always does._ His fingers brush the furry fabric again.

"Yeah, sure," Ned replies, tugging on Peter's arm.

Peter looks over his shoulder as Roman casually walks around them and disappears into the river of students. Across the hall, the News has ended and the TV screen is turned off. Liam and Rose are nowhere to be seen.

Ned tugs on Peter's arm again. He glances annoyed before looking down to his own hands, smiling to himself.

"Don't," Ned utters. "Don't make that face again."

"What face? That's my face."

"Well I don't like your face."

" _Dude_ _?_ "

"No, look." Ned sprints to stand in front of him. Small, compassionate eyes searching on his friend's expression for the right words - as if Peter had a real problem. "You two seem better now, that's good, really nice, but--"

Peter's smile sinks. "I think we should be going too," he murmurs.

His friend exhales, giving up on the intervention and leading the way. Before Parker hurries himself to follow the boy, his pale - childish, immature - fingers press against the teddy bear's belly. It chants ludic and weirdly nostalgic, as if things were still the same: I love you, I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you haven't been awkward, hating on capitalism, then buying random gay gifts to your homies,,,, and it shows.


	3. Requiem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good night, everyone.
> 
> Chadwick Boseman's death left me heartbroken. It really messed with my anxiety. I hope his family and all his friends and fans find comfort. He will always be a true inspiration and a real-life hero.

WHEN THE BOY SHOWED UP FOUR MONTHS AGO, wearing a violet bomber jacket and with wet curls stuck to his forehead, leaving a track of rainwater on the timeworn floor of Jessica Jones' office/apartment, she expected things would be easier this time around. That until he started talking.

The Alias Investigation agency is a bare, cheap place, sit on the fifth floor of a grim building matching its neighborhood - Hell's Kitchen, home to prey and predators on dismal concrete and five to ten new wannabe-superheroes at every square since 2012.

When he first knocked on her door, his eyes were stern but oddly shinny, stopping himself from crying - like a hopeless stray dog whining for food, she thought; today his eyes are cloudy and attentive, no signs of tears - because if you come too close, he can bite. That's when she reminds herself why she should only search for what is asked: this whole situation is ridiculous, and Jessica has sunk herself in this shit up to her waist.

"I told you when you hired me-- these things-- these things rarely end well."

The teen is full of rough edges; maybe that is why she empathized with him and his case. He is a wannabe-superhero too, like once she had been, and seems almost as uncomfortable as she did. He does a good job of hiding his tracks, but it gets easier to connect that persona to Roman when you already know what you're searching for.

Here goes a little secret about private investigation: Jessica wastes more time verifying if her client is telling the truth than with the actual hunt she will be paid for. Within the years, it became simpler to find what she needs; it just takes a good research on the internet - the paradise of personal information. Lucky for her, there would be no better place for previously top-secret information to be leaked. Be a subjective hint at a report title or his name in the middle of a victims list, Roman Andrés had crossed paths with the Winter Soldier once. Apparently, he is willing to do it again.

Long story short, this centenary heavily trained assassin - _the Winter Soldier_ \- was formerly James Buchanan Barnes, a World War II veteran presumed deceased, but later discovered to have been injected with the super-soldier serum and put into a cryogenic stasis every other decade. So far, so good. In September 2014, HYDRA - the anti-freedom organization responsible for such achievement - also ordered that the Soldier killed the ones they dimmed threatening to the cause. Among them, Roman and his father, Paul Lowery.

_"I just need to find a way to feel safe." He had murmured, holding a white envelope with money while shivering in damp clothes._

_"Being honest, this seems to be a case for the police," she suggested, trying not to sound patronizing. "You may need protection."_

_He leaned back and said with a ghost of a smile: "Hundreds of thousands of names on that list and the police would worry about a Colombian boy from Queens? What would they do? Change my identity?" He shrugged. "Nah, I like how people never know how to pronounce my name the right way."_

But of course, you can't find everyone. There are people who are a real mystery, some people do not want to be found and take things seriously. They hide and stay hidden. When they made the deal, both were aware that a professional serial killer wouldn't be around Facebook, for that matter.

Time passed by and that sentence agonized in her memory: _why would HYDRA worry about an ordinary family from Queens?_ Mix neurosis and a scratch of heroism with a dose of Bourbon and you have what Jessica would call: a mess that is not of her fucking business, but still... occasionally, she gives a damn.

Now she is here, facing the boy, handing him the report with an important key missing because that is not what he asked of her. But she knows about it, which makes her wonder if he is also aware of the information (what is quite improbable) or if he is just going blindly on this suicide mission (what is, either way, quite stupid).

The teenager is of average height, enough to perfectly reach the ground with both feet when sitting at the red chair in front of her. Even so, every single time he shows up, he manages to sit in the most improper way possible: today, one leg pulled up in the seat and cheek resting on his fist. Not that Jones has complained; she, too, does it to feel at ease.

He barely looks at the extent of the file, aiming for the address. "Are you sure he's there?"

"I've searched two other places before, and each time he had just moved out." Jessica leans forward a little bit and points at the papers in his hands. "This one: I'm sure. But I can't guarantee you that he hasn't cleared off already. But you won't want to keep paying for this cat-and-mouse game."

Roman turns to reach his backpack placed behind the chair, shoving the files inside between school books and seeking a new white envelope. He flashes a look on his cell phone screen - '3:26 pm' blinks back - and turns around to the woman again, this time with a discernible smile (but discreet, nonetheless). "Thanks, Jess. You're awesome."

"Glad I could help." Jessica drums her fingers on the table as the boy gets up, she thinks once, twice, then exhales. "So maybe it serves to something if I say that, unfortunately, murder of an asshat is still frowned upon."

He pulls a strap of the backpack up over his shoulder. "I won't tell if you won't." He tosses the package with the final amount of payment and walks out of the room, closing the damaged door with caution. 

So, here's another thing - and it's cliche as hell, but it's a cliche for a reason - those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it. There is a good chance of Roman becoming the one he hates all over again.

  
  


  
NOTHING HAD REALLY HAPPENED UNTIL IT HAD BEEN DESCRIBED. It was in the autumn, two years ago, that Roman Andrés woke up at a hospital. Medium concussion, a scar on his right eye, and no memories of the last twenty-four hours.

Dissociative amnesia, they diagnosed. Usually related to overwhelming stress and traumatic events, your brain confiscates memories until it thinks you can handle it. To this day, his brain still hasn't regained total confidence in him. It took Roman two days to be aware of a sound, the echo of the man's voice, in the way you can be aware of white noise; uneasy or intoxicating, full of blurry and cryptic words.

The boy didn't die there, but he is sure of what he would've seen, what death would look like: _blue_. The hue of the murderer's steps, his heavy boots over the asphalt;

ꜱᴘʟᴀꜱʜ ꜱᴘʟᴀꜱʜ ꜱᴘʟᴀꜱʜ

Blue, blue, blue. The color of this man's narrow eyes, painfully similar to his father's dead ones. Memory is a slippery thing. Perhaps, if he stares long enough to this picture he holds, Roman will be able to recall the last time he saw his dad.

Eyes drift away from James Barnes photos. He turns the page. It scares him that the last moment may have been a disturbing one.

Roman is leaning against a wall facing the Queens Center, struggling to protect himself from the scorching sun. He could be in the food court, sitting under the air conditioner cooling his intrusive thoughts, but it's illegal to smoke indoor public areas - and there goes his aesthetic.

His mother, Sofia, smoked too - imagine black silk hair parted in the middle, falling over olive skin, a woman wearing a long floral skirt and smoking a cigar every now and then; 89 out of 91 people would say she looked like a total badass. Because she was, indeed.

So, you know, she smoked. But she always made it clear that her children should never because cancer comes from within and you hardly notice it before it's too late. (Obviously, she didn't explain it in melodramatic, romanticized sentences. She made a five-minutes-long speech on how smoking would lead them to sell her favorite Tupperware to prove their worth in a gang. Or something similar. He doesn't remember the details, but she held a chancla the whole time and that's quite enough).

She tried to stop multiple times during Roman's childhood, and he and his brother would hide the cigarette packs around the house with the naïve belief that getting rid of an addiction was that easy.

Roman didn't start smoking in a gesture towards home, because he thought it would be a revolutionary way to preserve her memory near and dear with him. He didn't start smoking because he wanted to be cool and hot and part of a punk group like stated in his mother's cautionary tales. He also didn't try to be someone else, contrasting the guidance counselor's words “don’t expect to be the same person you were before.”

But he does expect that, as does everyone else.

He started smoking because he already craved it. That's how it went, at least. An ambiguous self-medication to his constant angst, which is probably making things worse. The apprehension that makes him wonder, perhaps he is the toxic one, not them, whoever _they_ may be - from system _to_ dreadful past _to_ horrible relationship. Not any of the things he blames, deep down.

The orange, roaring noise of a motorcycle speeding up snaps him out of his stupor. His heart jumps with a fear no horror movie has ever succeeded in triggering. He clenches his jaw and closes the file. In his right hand, the cigarette has burned halfway with an ash trail hanging and almost touching his knuckles; he flicks it off and takes a drag. He can't afford to have many during the day, so he keeps smoking until it is burning his fingers again.

Positive thinking. That is the least he can control; and he keeps forgetting to remember it. _Things always work out_ , something his father used to say. Not with 100% certainty, it's probably closer to ten.

Yet there are one or two guiding principles to get him up in the mornings and forward through the day. Some ambitious plans, also, for putting his life in order. But carpe diem was never his thing.

  


  
  
ANYONE WHO HAS WORKED WITH THE GENERAL PUBLIC has to eventually have the uncomfortable, but honest realization that they now understand what would make someone capable of punching another human being.

Roman doesn't remember where he had read this, but since then it turned into his mantra to carry on with that job. The problem is not exactly "people". He likes people (generally speaking). He has made piano classes for eight years and you don't learn how to play it well without fostering confidence. It's about timing - mornings are a _no-no_ to him - and inconvenience - that can happen at any given moment. Honestly, idiots that scream at him because of previously mentioned peanuts in their order and clients who ask for free samples of every single flavor and end up not buying anything are, naturally, needless.

The always bright ice cream parlor he works at is fairly empty to a sunny afternoon, with a few couples and kids scattered around the tables and the elderly sweet man that goes every Thursday and asks the same sundae each time. Roman always preferred those old-fashioned shops with mint-toned balconies and checkered floors, but this one is as modern and minimalist as a clinic.

"I should've warned you I was going to be late." He says to his coworker as he ties the apron with the company name printed on it.

"You're always late," Benji remarks, closing the cash register.

Benji Price is taller, older and prouder than Roman. He is technically (and by technically Roman means not even close) his superior and supervisor at work, but both came to an agreement that while they're doing their jobs at maintaining the ice cream cold, counting money right and keeping the environment clean of unknown infectious diseases, they can handle each other's missteps. Obviously, if the Big Boss is not present to decide their fates.

"Soon you'll be the employee of the month," Roman claims, grinning cheerfully. "In my heart."

Benji is a teaser. He turns around with a hand on his hips and the mischievous smile he displays every week. He wears the same black and scarlet uniform as Roman, but he doesn't need the dreadful twill cap to cover his short, rose-colored hair. It looks soft and the hue fits him well.

Price, Roman and another girl who works the morning shift aren't close friends ( _gee_ , he never even talked to that girl), but they are a group nonetheless, namely the trio "share of diversity" the company needed. Benji seems to have taken upon himself to be the token bitch with an attitude; he is flamboyant and unflinching, and Roman is not sure about his own role in this lazy narrative.

Smiling is something Price seems to do a lot before he lies as well. "Looking cute today, are we, Tom Riddle? Total 'soft boy' material." Roman barely notices the nickname, a trick from his subconscious opting to ignore the fact that his cute coworker is a Potterhead. No, he prefers to focus on the compliment. Besides, he is _not_ a soft boy!

The sliding of the guitar starting ' _Modern Love_ ' from Benji's work playlist whispers through the speakers. He stares at his own Spotify library like Narcissus staring at himself in the water.

" ' _I know when to get out. I know when to stay in_ '. David Bowie really had his shit together." Roman says, earning a smirk from the other boy. As much as this simple smirk may be seriously appealing, it is not what Roman was aiming for. It's been a whole year of partnership - they should be far past that - and, by extension, he is starting to believe that _maybe_ Benji truly hates his guts.

Roman doesn't like to be _overlook-able_ when alone in a crowd, although most of the time he knows he is. He likes receiving more attention than he would ever admit to himself, but not being hated had been easier once.

He lost his pace since Liam. That guy really knows how to induce self-consciousness.

Well, fuck Liam Reed. Fuck this reflexivity trap too.

The door chimes as a man and a kid get in. The child has shoulder-length hair, which seems to be the perfect amount of what is missing to the man's prematurely balding head. They get closer, and the guy has the smile and the ugly washed-out jeans of someone who you just know will call you "fella" or any other friendly-old variation.

"Hi, what can I get for you today?"

"Hey, fella." _Told 'ya_. He asks for a milkshake (Our _Customers Service_ has already heard your complaints about the lack of a "milkshake, boys and yard" joke here. We apologize for the lost opportunity) then he taps the little boy's shoulder and the kid does what kids do; the opposite of what is asked. Instead of saying what he wants, he points to the green ice cream on display. Not satisfied, he places his little hand on the glass, smudging it with sweat fingerprints that Roman will have to clean later.

"Cute kid," Benji mutters with a fake smile and venom on his tongue.

Roman registers the order, gives the change, and hands the receipt to the other teenager. As they stay in an uncomfortable silence filled solely by Price's playlist and Roman's thoughts wondering if his coworker has the daily intentions of flirting or starting a fight, he notices the little boy staring.

“You look like a videogame character.” The kid chants, pointing up to his face. His adult supervisor doesn't react to it, now too distracted with his cellphone. “What happened?”

Roman gives the kid a tight smile. “Werewolf attack,” he says - his usual reply. The same answer he'd given Benji when he'd asked. That, or “sword fighting” and “my family considers Monopoly a blood sport” and a dozen other equivalents of “I don’t want to talk about it,” until the person finally gets the hint and drops the subject. 

Benji serves the desserts and they turn to leave. In their exit, the man holds patiently the door so a woman can come in.

The woman, Roman recognizes immediately, is May Parker - Peter's aunt and legal guardian. Her wild eyes, shielded by round lenses, have beautiful expression lines from smiling all the time. She walks towards him with affability, as if Roman was part of the family too.

Feeling all the more enthusiastic with her presence, he opens the balcony door and walks out to greet her. May gives him a tight and quick hug before stepping back. "How's your day going?" He asks.

"Good. I was dealing with the move-in details. We're going to that apartment six blocks away, I don't know if Peter told you already."

"Oh," he frowns. "No, he didn't."

May shifts her weight and tilts her head slightly. "Is everything okay? You haven't shown up in some time."

Roman nods vehemently and crosses his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I'm just..." he sighs. "You know, kinda busy. School, work and all. But we're fine. It's fine."

"Fine," she repeats. He doesn't think Peter has said anything about them to her, but either way, this was probably a trick question. "So you should go dinner with us."

Now _that_ is tricky, for sure. May Parker is, undoubtedly, a terrible cooker. But so is Roman - the biggest insult to his family, second only to his sister's vegan trends. (He wonders how that will change the moment they discover he won't have a pack of biological children). Again, back to the dinner subject, he was raised to be polite - as one should - and for the life of him, there will never be a day where Roman won't compliment May's food, even if she knows it is a lie. Still...

 _Am I hesitating too much?_ He thinks. _Damn, did she noticed?_

"It will be pizza." She noticed.

"I would love it!"

"Tomorrow, then?"

He fidgets. He thinks about Peter and why the idea of meeting his best friend seems so frightening. He is never good at confrontations when he knows he is the wrong one.

Fuck hesitation.

"Tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have this little fancasting to my characters that may help you all:  
> Keiynan Lonsdale is Benji Price  
> Benjamin Wadsworth is Roman, and you can't tell me he isn't a faithful copy of Christian Coulson's Tom Riddle, so now it makes sense.
> 
> Next chapter will be basically Peter angry then crying then Roman crying because Peter is crying and May being the co-captain of this ship.


	4. Puzzle pieces

OKAY, MAYBE HE HAS A TENDENCY TO LOOK AT THESE THINGS FROM THE WRONG PERSPECTIVE. _Maybe_ he has been overreacting. It just might be possible that Roman and he are still good together and all of this is going to work out fine. And still...

Peter is laying upside down on the couch, legs dangling over the backrest and head falling on the edge. His fingers struggle to reach the box of matzos at the coffee table as he waits for Ned's reply. He hears coming from the kitchen, a few feet away from the living room, the clanging of metal when his dear aunt puts inside the oven a tray with the pizza they've just made - so peacefully - like she hasn't just betrayed her nephew.

It’s been six months and a scratch of days since Roman last visited them, or had any significant interaction with Peter at all, with exception of _that_ week in March.

Don't get him wrong, Peter is sure his wonderful, sweet aunt May was well-intentioned; that's the only way he knows she can be.

Either way-- "It's called backstabbing!"

"Is that so?" May replies. "Seems too aggressive. I'm a 'Poison in the Cookies' type of person."

Six months sounds nothing in the great scheme of things, but you'd be surprised.

Peter can be a real kvetch sometimes, by the words of grandma Rita. He knows. Before Spider-Man, he always thought that apart from his family, _the world could go hang!_ He never seemed to get right this whole ordeal of being liked by his classmates, and said so, he didn't like them back. Peter knew kids tended to ignore him, say mean things not only behind his back but also from the table next to him; so he mastered himself in the art of comebacks, which he is really good at, might say.

_A smart mouth is what he is, being impertinent, don't you know? Two wrongs don't make a right._

Peter has always been a smart kid - he learns fast and re-learns with the same efficiency. So, from a pretty young age, he got the unspoken message. The world may hate you, but do what you can to give the people who love you some needed peace. This can be roughly translated to _move on! You're the one with better grades, anyways._

He chose to become quieter, smaller, and unseen - a huge task to someone who can hardly sit still. Soft-eyed, soft-spoken. Step by step, he has led himself to where he is now. Fifteen years and eleven months pushing his shoulders down, a cracked phone pressing his chest and sorrow simmering in his stomach until he feels like throwing up. (Dramatic much?)

Peter is not really into melodramatic rambling, believe it or not. He is not poetical unless it steps closer to irony. It all could be rephrased to _hormones and traumatic experiences plus being ghosted by his best friend makes an ordinary boy (possibly) cry himself to sleep that one night._ But even Peter admits that certain things - certain people - deserve corny descriptions and Blink-182 lyrics dedicated to.

Roman Andrés is one of those people. Roman is also one of the causes. Because the thing Peter is keeping now, this feeling saturating like cotton between his ribs, has long gone past the time to be spoken. It grew, melted, blended into one and another thing throughout the years. Perhaps every friendship feels like it after so long, perhaps there's an untranslatable word for it in some foreign language; the kind Roman would declare to sound fake-deep and Peter would swoon to smithereens. His resentment now feels like a cup of tea that was too hot, but after he walked to the next room and returned, it became too cool.

So maybe he shouldn't say anything.

Roman had been his best buddy (and basically the only buddy he ever had before Ned) since he was six. Peter was just at the start of the long-term condition of needing glasses; a scrawny, smaller-than-average boy in the first grade with a huge (to him, at least) Jurassic Park backpack that would often throw him out of balance. During recess, he would always look at this group of older kids, second graders. They weren't as loud as his own sugar-driven classmates, but they looked just as dangerous.

To be fair, everyone seemed to hold a certain danger since early in his life.

Then there was this boy wearing amazing neon skater shoes, face dripping with sweat from running around the courtyard. Peter can't remember the thoughts he had when he first saw him, if there had been any; he can't remember the pain when his knees hit the ground and his hands scratched against the sharp grass almost too late to protect his face from the impact; what he remembers is the nothing-kind words in the tip of his tongue the moment he saw his glasses, broken inches away from the other fallen boy.

With a beginning like this one, disagreements shouldn't be anything new to them, but Peter feels wrong inside without him; teary and miserable. Roman stayed - after all, he always stayed - and that's what doesn't make sense. Doesn't it mean Roman feels that way, too?

_'Do you want to be best friends?'_ written in shredded paper. A box for _yes_ , a box for _no_. When life had this kind of complex decision, when Roman could've chosen anyone. Peter should've known better. One day, Roman would get over him and tip-toe away from this mistake, like it ended up happening.

Well, after ten years. And it didn't end up with a period, more like a semicolon.

In short - things are complicated.

"Torturing yourself with 'what-ifs' won't solve anything, baby." Aunt May says, taping his propped-up leg. "Life already has ways to tear people apart. You shouldn't take new opportunities for granted."

He sighs loudly.

"I find your lack of faith disturbing," May declares with a playful smirk. Peter looks up in shock. "Just talk to him."

_Smartmouth, impertinent kid. For someone so smart you can be so stupid._

His phone buzzes with a notification and the plain default background lights up. Peter had sent Ned an outline of what he plans to say tonight. A whole made-up script running through his mind the same way he needed to do before calling a Taco Bell.

**ned**  
seems all good  
are you sure there's nothing missing?

_Well, there's this one little thing--_

**pete**  
Yep

**ned**  
why am i so invested in this? it's like filling papers for adoption

**pete**  
We're going to be a happy dysfunctional family :)

**ned**  
no :)

The doorbell rings, and he leans on his elbows to look at May. "Didn't you say eight-thirty?" She nods. "So he shouldn't be here before nine."

Peter shuffles to bring his legs down to the cushions like a four-year-old learning how to swim (which _whoop-dee-do_ he didn't learn either), flapping his arms and almost falling off the couch. As someone who offers his own life in name of swinging with homemade webs between 800 feet-tall buildings, that's quite embarrassing and never to be mentioned. Peter stuffs his hands inside the pockets of his sweatpants, pitter-pattering to the entry before noticing he forgot the keys on the coffee table. After shuffling around, he gets to open the door.

The boy waiting outside, who was idly scrolling through his phone, looks up with a lovely grin, with slightly crooked teeth and all. He's backlit by the morbid yellow lamplight of the hallway, his hip leans in the doorframe and his backpack hangs from one shoulder; he wears the same clothes from today's morning because he only goes back home at night. Roman takes pride in his appearance, which is rich coming from someone who mostly owns a dozen black plain t-shirts. Well, not Today's Roman and Today's button-up shirt patterned with stripes.

He looks so alive.

"I know I'm early, sorry."

Here stands the only person Peter has ever met that apologizes for being on time. He is the one who will arrive half-hour later than agreed because he doesn't like to "pressure the host".

Roman tucks his cellphone in the waistband of his jeans before leaning to give Peter a quick hug - those made to greet everyone in the room when you arrive and no one knows the right time to break contact so it ends up awkward. ' _Excuse me_ ', he says as he gets inside because contrary to what his smart ass attitude suggests, Roman can be polite out of habit.

"Pajamas? Really?" He says looking Peter up and down.

"I'm meeting you at my house, why would I care about it?" Peter retorts as he closes the door.

"It's about commitment. I not only just left work but I also brought you ice cream, and you couldn't even brush your hair?"

Peter looks at the red paper bag he hadn't noticed before dangling from Roman's grip. He runs his fingers through his hair to soften it down, and flashes his best obsequious Good Boy Smile™, "you were saying?"

"That I bought you ice cream, but you're the sweetest thing in here."

Peter snorts. "So lame. What is it?"

"Chocolate vanilla swirl with cookie crunch," Roman says and his eyes shine with pride for having a chance to make this joke. He fights a smile. "Kidding, that one was over. It's caramel."

He swings his backpack from his shoulder and places it against the wall with a tired sigh. "I wonder who I need to suck to make someone refill the stock," he scoffs with enough consideration to lower his tone so May won't hear his bullshit.

"I thought that was your job." A pause. "Refill the stock, I mean."

"That's what my coworker said!" Roman declares while walking to the kitchen to greet May. He bends down to kiss her on the cheek, which she receives with a friendly smile. The two keep a little chat Peter doesn't pay attention to, but the excitement in Roman's voice and the idea of ruining it turns his insides topsy-turvy.

Sauntering back to the living room, where Peter stayed too entertained with the hem of his old Doctor Who shirt, Roman grabs his phone again and starts to type a message. Peter's fingers drum nervously on his sides and his jaw sets because _is this dipshit for real?_

"They're fighting on the family group chat and it's funny 'cause I don't know half of these people," the Dipshit in question says. "I'm trying to find out the origin but all the pieces of evidence show that it's about a lemon cake."

The phone buzzes with a new text. Peter doesn't have to read the name to recognize the girl on the profile picture. Her skin is dark and she could easily be a supermodel; she's the captain of the Academic Decathlon Team and each day she crosses paths with Peter, she looks more devastatingly pretty.

"Liz Allen?"

Roman laughs, but disguises it as a cough. "You're still drooling over her?"

"What? Why do you think that?"

"Because you look at her all the time with those heart-eyes." He mocks, batting his lashes and pressing a hand to his heart.

"You just implied you've been looking at me all the time to know that."

He goes back to typing. "It doesn't take much to notice."

"Right, because you're so observant and attentive," Peter whispers, trying to give himself some courage to spill all out. He knows how poorly worded it was, but he continues. "Can you stop... detaching yourself from problems?"

"What problem? I thought we were over it," Roman says without looking up.

"Are you over it? I don't even know what _it_ is, since you never told me anything."

Roman puts the phone in his back pocket and crosses his arms, what looks more like a self-hug, to finally turn his attention to Peter. "Why does it matter?"

"So I'm supposed to just accept you acting like an asshole every time you start dating someone?"

"It was once. I made a mistake. You know-- I'm not here because I have nothing better to do, I missed being with you," he insists, voice edging to scream-whisper. "But it's just convenient to have someone else to blame and a story to make you feel bad enough to forgive me."

"If something happened, and you couldn't tell someone you trust about it, then it was bad. And it _does_ matter."

Roman is taken aback. He looks down at his worn-out shoes and stays silent for a moment. Peter stifles an irrational desire to get closer. He can't see his aunt in the kitchen, but can hear the clinking of silverware as she pretends not to listen to the conversation. Then his focus is back on Roman, who's running his thumb across his bottom lip, a habit Peter has never bothered to point out. Catching his gaze, Roman asks, soft-spoken: "you said 'move on', but you obviously didn't, so what is it that you wanna tell me?"

Parker sighs and holds Roman by the wrist - thumb over his pulse - quietly leading him to his room upstairs so they could talk properly.

He clicks the light on and closes the door behind them while the other boy looks around without rush. Aunt May said they would be moving out at the end of the month, so things are still out of boxes and the bedroom still looks like a supercut of his childhood. The doorframe marked with his heights over the years; posters over posters and a New York Mets pennant on the wall; books scattered on the floor because the desk is full of recycled material as a makeshift lab; a teddy bear keychain hanging from a table lamp.

Peter sits at the foot of the bed and waits for Roman to turn around and look at him - an impractical decision since Peter can't keep eye contact without losing track of words. The perks of being Spider-man: he has the sensory overload to manage, but now he has a mask that hides the vulnerability in his face.

Roman steps closer, sea green Vans avoiding paper sheets and Lego pieces until he is staying face-to-face with him. He puts his hands in his pockets and sways on his feet as if Parker was ready to show him a new magic trick, but without any child-like excitement in his face.

Peter bites his nail. He tilts his head to the space by his side. Roman sits down.

"When you sent me that message, I didn't say anything because I didn't want to be inconvenient or- or mean to you. I thought I would make things worse by saying anything," Peter mutters, looking at his hands, noticing how cold they feel.

Roman gives Peter's arm a light squeeze. "What is it, Peach?"

Peach. It sounds like teasing - it had been teasing once - but now it's definitely not. It is kind and warm like a candle softly burning. Peter wants every pet name Roman gives him to tie itself in his chest and press it whenever he forgets. It's pathetic how his pulse quickens from such a small gesture. Peter didn't give him a nickname, neither he ever planned to, not after spending afternoons writing " _Roman Andrés_ " in his notebook when he was thirteen.

Roman lifts his broken eyebrow. Peter mirrors his action before noticing he's been staring.

What was he supposed to say, again?

_Think think think_.

"I said shit about you to Ned." _Great start, Parker._ "That's probably part of why he doesn't seem to be on the best terms with you, I'm sorry."

Roman slowly nods. "Fair enough."

Peter shakes his head.

"But that was during the 'fade out'. You know, when you started ignoring my messages, my calls. I was mad and trying to blame someone for it. I blamed myself, blamed you, blamed Liam," he barely notices Roman flinch at the mention. "Because you didn't say anything. I even blamed your new friends, which I wouldn't have been mad about if-- if you had the decency to look me in the face. But when--" his voice breaks. There's an ache in his throat.

He wants to keep his voice steady because he knows Roman can catch any difference by the color. _I know all the colors that compose you,_ he told him once as a joke, but it never left Peter's mind. Not that his body language is hiding anything either.

"Take your time," Roman says, his tone sympathetic.

Peter always heard how people grieve in different ways as if it is an exclusively personal thing. Waiting until it chronologically leads to a place beyond grief. When his uncle died, however, he saw how death isn't as solitary as one might imagine it to be. So why is he choking to say those words when he so eagerly wants to learn how to speak up again?

"When Ben died, I knew I could count on you. And a week after the funeral, you turned your back on me. I wasn't looking for some-- payment, that all I had cared about you was just so I could ask something in return. That was just how things were, right? How we supported each other?"

Peter's head pounds from holding back tears, although Roman is ahead of him, crying free and quietly. Peter averts his eyes again.

"If you had said you needed some time by yourself, I would've understood," He takes a deep breath. Exhale. "If that all was too much for you and you couldn't be around most of the time, I would've understood."

Peter presses the palms of his hands to his eyelids, to dry the tears coming out. "I got angry because Ben was there for you. We all were, and I wouldn't do it any different. But when I needed, you weren't here."

The silence that comes after is oddly reassuring. Reassuring as only silence can be, but oddly because in no situation he would ever imagine himself calm at the sight of Roman crying. Peter can notice by his peripheral vision when the boy moves to dry his tears away.

"I'm sorry."

"I already forgave you," Peter utters almost absent-mindedly. "I just needed to vent. Or the next step would be Fight Club with that guy."

"No, you're right on telling me how I made you feel. I'm sorry I chose him, too."

"Why did you had to _choose_ someone in the first place? Doesn't sound right," Peter replies, deliberately picking at the sheet's fabric.

Roman shrugs.

"Because for some reason I thought I couldn't have both."

Peter looks up at him, deadpan, expecting some polygamous joke, but Roman is deadly serious.

"I really believed he was giving up so much for me, that I was dragging him down or something. But I also didn't wanna be alone. Not that I was alone with you, just-- we're gonna live different lives soon, and you're going to find a nice person like Liz Allen. I'm seventeen, retained a grade, and each semester I'm invited twice to have a _chat_ with the counselor. Also, I wouldn't out someone. So if a guy likes me but wants to make it a secret, I should at least be grateful for even having something."

Peter feels his insides turn upside down and his lungs give up. His own voice, years ago, rushes through his memories, ' _It's not like we ever have to tell anybody about it_.'

"I knooow how that sounds," Roman continues. "Exactly, I'm just seventeen. Young love is dumb. Romeo and Juliet should've been grounded. I'll have more heartbreaks in my life. Whatever saying you have." He quickly laughs as if he'd choke in tears if he tried harder. "But I couldn't see it while it was happening."

Roman then slings an arm around Peter's shoulders and without a second thought, Peter shifts to sit closer and wrap his arms around the boy's waist. It's a half-decent hug to a half-decent conversation, but both seem to have worked just fine. He is hyper-aware of his surroundings, though: of how Roman's fingertips softly caresses his arm, and how their knees are touching, and how he doesn't smell menthol, so either Roman did a great job hiding traces, or Peter is getting used to it once again.

"Just so you know," Roman says after a while. "It wasn't your fault, there was nothing you could actually do to end things. Sometimes one just needs to listen to _JoJo_ sing ' _Leave (Get Out)_ ' after finding out more bullshit and the willpower will come from within."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way Peter is a lil brat with an attitude to burn the world but also an innocent kid, soft enough for me to use words like "topsy-turvy"; "whoop-dee-do" and "buddy" all in one pov is honestly impressive,,,, the range this boy has.
> 
> This chapter is divided into two - the night is not over yet! The next one is Roman's side of the story.


	5. That don't fit together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: description of abusive relationship (nothing graphic) and denying  
> Also lots of swearing? that's what all my vocabulary is based of

IT WAS ALMOST SPRING WHEN ROMAN SAW HIMSELF DRAGGING HIS BODY into the backseat of his cousins' car. Although it wasn't Mariana who was driving, but Nicolás, who had sounded livid on the phone. His brother didn't ask why his eyes were so red and puffy late at night on a Tuesday. He didn't even look at him at all, and Roman knew it was because Nico got too distracted by his own problems.

They drove past the Willow Lake park, with the seatbelt tight in his skin and scratching the base of his throat, and Roman wished he could tell his brother he had cried outside a stranger's house and wanted their father there to help things make sense. He wished he could tell his brother he would do things differently now, but who he wanted to be never ended up right.

He had lost all his voice that afternoon, either way.

Men, always trying to speak louder than anyone in the room. The room in the case had been Liam Reed's repainted mustang - _which now has the first position in remarkable places Roman has ever cried_ \- because they couldn't afford (how ironic) to fight in the house and risk dragging the attention of the neighbors. It had been a screaming fight for a minute or two.

Surprisingly, Roman is famous for his fight reactions - the only way he got to survive the Winter Soldier, he figures. To this day, Roman hasn't regretted sucker-punching Scott Hester in the middle of a George Orwell lecture. " _Four legs good, two legs bad_ ," read the teacher, and there was the two of them tackling each other on the ground, Scott swallowing his homophobic jokes with bleeding lips. It wasn't Roman's problem if the boy's mamma hated him so much she had to give him a name like _Scott_ , or if Scott Boy decided to pry into him and Oliver Tanaka.

So not only Roman expected to be able to argue back on a stupid relationship discussion, but he was also proudly convinced of his self-sufficiency.

That until a switch turned Roman's brain off and he felt like a kindergarten boy not knowing words enough to defend himself. Fight, flight or freeze, baby - and his brain chose the scariest of the three: dissociation. He talked less and less and then not at all. Roman stared off to the driver's seat where Liam kept punching the steering wheel to call his attention, and he remembers wishing for Liam not to get hurt because of it.

That's the thing. He didn't love Scott Hester, but he did love Liam Reed. His incisive words knew where to hit, and the obvious despair Roman was feeling was enough for Liam to understand he could do it whenever and however he felt like; Roman wouldn't fight back.

  
  
THE YEAR WAS 2015, and if Fifty Shades of Grey, Jon Snow's death, and One Direction's turmoil weren't enough burden to carry on, Roman also received an ultimatum smoothed with sensible words that felt like a slap in his face. He would be stuck as a Freshman for another year - _"we are deeply sorry for the events that lead to this kind of behavior"_ \- at the expense of holding back someone else's place in their Study Fund Program and having his partial scholarship cut by a quarter. Sharing classes with _Pete_ was the silver lining (and, being shamefully honest, a bruise to his ego).

Liam Reed, a Junior at the time, was Roman's daydream. With bleak experience at seeing his crushes floating past him, unreachable and more fitting of naïve stubbornness, there would be no other way to lead this situation than staying aloof wishing he was beautiful enough to compete with those pretty girls Reed was always surrounded by.

Roman's friends knew him; his friend's friends knew him; the rich-as-hell and good-looking captain of the football team who doesn't publicly say shit about other students like his classmates and closest friends (which is enough to own him a medal). _That's a mistake_ , Roman promptly thought. He should've focused on the soccer players instead, but he tripped and fell head over heels for Liam - for his fucking lovely smile that wasn't either caused by or directed to Roman; the wholehearted laughs and the dimples it showed.

His crushes never went far from infatuation, short-lived and product of neediness. But once Liam touched his arm and looked directly at him, Roman felt happy like a kid in a candy store. Just as vulnerable and immature as one, too.

Reed had been sweet and funny and charming and an abundance of good synonyms. He used to give him late rides from work, buy him gifts, and make his skin warm. Niceness let Roman's barriers down. It also stopped the appropriate boundaries from being in place whenever Roman felt uncomfortable. But that seemed a small price to pay for it; in a dog-eat-dog world, who doesn't want to have an intoxicating good relationship?

Reed praised his looks - _not much to say about his intelligence considering his fucked-up grades._ He was also understanding of his relapses - _because some people are built stronger than others, so he loved Roman, although, clearly, he would never get better._

Months passed and things gradually became unstable. The good days were _great_ days in crystal frame, Roman had to be careful not to break it.

 _"At least therapists get paid. I’m just doing it all for free."_ He would say and repeat until Roman felt guilt for saying _"no"_ and started to just lay down. It had been during summer vacation, with his longings burning him, that Roman finally understood what Liam knew the whole time: fatigue becomes surrender. The sheets felt cold on his cheek, his body and memory felt diluted and it was over, and he was left hurting. Liam's bed was soft again.

Liam knew he had anger issues. God, didn't he apologized time and time again? It was just who he was, and who he'd always be. _"But, I mean, so does every guy."_ Except for Roman, who couldn't stand anything like a man.

Whenever he hears the words 'abusive relationship', Roman thinks about the gruesome pictures of battered women and rabid men they currently show on the news. Not _his_ relationship, he would never let himself be a victim of such a horrific cycle. Sure, Liam screamed and called him worthless, but at the end he swore he loved Roman in spite of it, casting kisses all over his neck. Sure, he kept an eye on him all the time, to the level where Roman's friendships began to bleach, but that was because he worried - they wouldn't stand much longer either way. _No one but Reed_. No, not _his_ relationship. So Roman avoids calling it abusive, maybe because it sounds like an extra expense to his already crowded pity-party. Maybe because it gives a nauseating tint to it. Maybe it's denial.

Liam Reed was not a cackling maniac, after all. He just wanted something and didn't care how he would get it.

That's how he decided that hooking up with Rose O'Brien was a justified case.

The break up was a whole new level of Dante's Inferno, and Roman almost let himself fall for that numb surrender once again. Downplaying his emotions in front of his younger sister had always been punishing, lying to his _abuela_ about who was the demanding person calling him every day made Roman feel ashamed of ever wanting to come out to his family.

Despite that, with a smoking cigarette hanging between his pink lips the way his boyfriend always hated, he spat through the phone to Liam Reed and his fragile, glorified masculinity: _"I hope that girl cheats on you with your daddy the same way he cheats on your mom with college girls."_

The calls stopped.

He felt sick.

  


  
ROMAN SHRUGS AGAIN AS IF SAYING: no big deal. Why don't we bury it six feet apart like anything in our lives?

"But I did push you away by saying how I didn't like him," Peter retorts.

"But you were right. He wasn't good for me. I keep remembering now and it must've looked so pathetic, so easy to get through."

Peter stays silent, but attentive; now he is the one waiting the time his friend needs to continue.

"He... wanted to break up with me because he thought I was cheating on him with you." Peter shifts by his side, scowling. "I know, I know how it sounds now, I mean-- I know you my whole life and I knew the guy for like months. I just had to keep choosing your side because you matter to me."

The arm he was using to hug Peter retreats. Peter hesitantly lets go of his embrace too.

"But I couldn't talk, he wouldn't let me. I couldn't breathe." Roman's voice trembles. "I kept saying I didn't do anything, and he would just keep asking if I thought he was stupid. Why I was crying and making myself so hard to talk to, and I was just _so fucking tired_. He kept calling me a liar, and I started to believe I was lying."

Roman reaches for his back pocket without missing a beat. _The cigarettes_ , Peter thinks. He finds nothing.

"Like-- like when you say something so many times that it loses its meaning. I didn't even know why he suddenly came up with this, but he must have had a reason, you know? Why would my own boyfriend come up with this, call me mean names and scream at me if I didn't deserve it?"

"You didn't deserve that," Peter argues. "No one deserves that."

"And then I was pleading sorry for something I didn't do." He checks his other pocket, nothing. "Or did. I don't fucking know. I was just too much over you, anyways. I was probably acting in a way that was making even you uncomfortable, I don't remember anymore. I'm sorry."

"How can... how can you say something like that?" Peter gasps. "You're my best friend, one of the best people in my life, obviously he said that, he was--" _the one cheating._ "--an asshole; who didn't deserve you."

Roman runs his fingers through his hair and waves his hand dismissively. "I don't wanna talk about it, it's enough to hear about him at school. Just know _you_ deserve good people," he points at Peter. "and deserve good things happening to you. Be the assertive brat you were born to be--"

"The _what_?"

"And don't fall for that shit." Roman leans forward and pecks him on the forehead as if giving him a blessing. "The first year, I fell for that _'look angry and upset and hope someone saves you'_ thing. What an awful way to live!" he shakes his head. "I want to be so warm that people feel gently warmed when they're around me."

"Like a soup?" Peter blurts out, regretting instantly.

Roman laughs, silly and slightly confused. Peter's face turns pink.

"Like-- yeah. Alright, like soup," he giggles. "I missed you, dude."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liam is not a character deliberately chosen to oppose Peter. He is not supposed to be the "bad ex" in the way of the "perfect relationship". He is a representation of what not discussing LGBTQ+ youth can lead to.
> 
> While searching for information about toxic relationships, I could only find heteronormative examples. I had to search specifically about LGBTQ+ cases, and all were about how they have low support. With lesbian couples, it was "just a catfight"; with trans women, they were supposed to be "strong enough to defend themselves"; with gay couples, that's just the "expected" of two men together. And you all know emotional abuse is still a taboo to be discussed in any case.
> 
> So LGBTQ+ people, especially young ones, will have this happening to them and will think they're overreacting for not fitting the example. They'll blame themselves and they'll hide because homosexual relationships are all cute and fun until you have to discuss something that breaks the sparkling picture. Or they'll take what they can get because the world has been giving you low expectations since a young age.
> 
> So yeah, I'm tired of seeing the "bully to romantic partner" trope. You not only dismiss the abuse, you make it inherent of the relationship.
> 
> This will be a more meaningful plot later
> 
> •••
> 
> Sooo, babes back to the lovey-dovey friendship. It's obvious by now that I love boys talking about their feelings and getting to know themselves better.
> 
> Next chapter we're finally seeing Roman's vigilante side in action and his conflicting purposes to do it. We'll be introduced to three new characters and also have a glimpse of a well-known superhero (can you guess who?)


End file.
